By Mike O’Neil
We flew down to Puerto Vallarta this past summer. It is a small Mexican town on the west coast of Jalisco, situated on the Bahia de Banderas (the Bay of Banderas) with well- founded contentions of grandeur. It has always been known for its beaches, which run for many miles, and its forest iguanas—of which there are fewer and fewer.
Jeanne and I have taken occasional day trips to Mexican border towns over the years, but this was a full week. We lived in a mountainside villa (Villa Las Palmeras) within walking distance of the town center, in the company of our son Dan, his partner Rick, and about 25 other hard-playing, hard-drinking 30-somethings—their pals. And though it was sub-tropically hot, and in the middle of the August rainy season, since Dan had offered to fund the whole thing, who could turn down such an adventure?
Several rivers run through the town, and in the rainy season uncountable side streams and freshets tumble down through the hills and mountains that form the sheer backdrop along the coast. Intense greens and browns are the landscape colors that strike the eye. Tropical jungle foliage clings to the sides of the nearly vertical mountains. Rockslides are not uncommon—driving along its twisting main road up through the countryside is a jarring, tooth-grinding venture. Most everyone speeds, giving little care for safety. It can be fatal. Several weeks ago, a sight seeing van, much like the one we piled into occasionally, plunged over a steep embankment and crashed on the rocks seventy feet below. All eleven occupants died.
The town, viewed from the elevated vantage point of the Villa, was quite beautiful. When it was not raining, the sunsets were an orange-pink magnificence, and fireworks often lit up the night sky. To me its crowning glory is the main church in the center of town—Our Lady of Guadalupe—whose tower is in fact topped with a huge facsimile of Empress Carlota’s crown. This struck me as odd because, as you will no doubt recall, Carlota’s husband, the Emperor Maximillian, Arch-Duke of Austria, and she were installed as rulers of Mexico by Napoleon the third—all backed up by his French army. The Mexicans themselves for the most part didn’t take kindly to this colonialist incursion. Eventually, in 1867, a few years after our civil war, we told the Frenchies to withdraw their forces. Their army left, but through a misguided mixture of hubris and noblis oblige, Maximillian stayed—only to be shot full of holes by the Republican minions of Benito Juarez. My question—why would the Mexican Catholic establishment in Puerto Vallarta chose to venerate the crown of an oppressor? Life is full of mysteries. The crown is mighty pretty though.
The town itself is generally driven by a tourist economy. It is clean and cheerful. You find many jewelry stores selling a great deal of silver, restaurants of all sorts (HOOTERS and HARDROCK CAFÉ are oddly prominent), and in every third store it seemed, large signs boast genuine Cuban cigars. I bought two.
But for the glitzy storefronts, there is an ever-present patina of knife-edge poverty slipping out at the edges. The cadaverous, cleanly dressed woman sitting mutely on the steps of Nuestra Senora de Guadalupe, holding an empty plastic cup just a bit forward of her knee; the ever-present street venders politely but insistently plying their wares. There was no begging, but there was a definite need to sell one’s box of goods, in a town where skilled construction workers make four dollars a day—and it’s a very long day, indeed.
Speaking of the jungle habitat, Jeanne and I had good reason to know the particulars of its flora and fauna. Along with the rest of the young friends of Dan and Rick, and Rick’s parents Jessie and Merla (two people closer to our age than the rest) we went on a southbound rattly open-air camion and drove well into the single-lane dirt road raw countryside. It’s not that we didn’t know what we were getting into. The brochure for LOS VERANOS CANOPY TOUR pictures people smiling, and eventually most of us did too, after it was over. The abomination is called zip-lining.
Steel cables had been strung high in the jungle canopy upon the stronger trees. They lead to a number of platforms from top to bottom. One is fitted out with various hooks and harnesses. Eventually, one is hooked onto a handheld device that rings onto the cable, pushed off the platform with the admonition “Hold your legs straight, Senor,” as you go “zipping” down and across a 500 foot forested abyss on your way to the next way station (there were fourteen such things in all). At one really dicey point of descent I screamed, not intentionally meaning to take the entity’s name in vain—JESUS H. CHRIST!!!
By the way, the young Mexicanos in charge of this operation didn’t call me Senor—there was a certain sense of errant fun and competence in all this. They took to calling me Santa Claus—for my girth and snow white beard, I suppose. And when mis amigos Pablo y Carlos would call me that as they advised me to lift my leg and hold onto the damn rubber handles, as they hooked me up to the cable for the next terrifying descent, I would say to them, “ Que deseas par la Navidad, Chicos? (What do you want for Christmas, little boys?).” They ignored the humor of this bit of Spanish. Just as well—that was not the time to distract them.
Zipping over the terrible chasms I never looked down—always looked straight ahead, but Jeanne told me she did once. Once was enough for her.
We survived and made it to the bottom, where cold beer and DVD’s of our adventure awaited us. Paisanos offered to place a large tarantula on your neck or face, for photo ops. I didn’t bite, so neither did the spider.
More of the Villa Las Palmeras. It was an obscure, private place run by an ever attentive staff who fed us, cleaned, and otherwise saw to our needs. There was air conditioning of a sort in our rooms; mi amigo Jorge saw to the place settings and the delivery of meals, assisted by a dour-faced Jesus. .Oh! For the guacamole y frijoles de Anna Rosa—our cook. Las Palmeras translates literally to “the palm trees” and water coconut palms ringed the villa, with green coconuts ready to fall.
There was one Mexican delicacy that I had looked forward to, which I eventually discovered was not to be had in Jalisco—grilled goat (en Espanol se llama cabrita asada). Some years ago, my friends Bob and Margie Lyons told me about it, and described it as akin to a delicate lamb. Jesse and I were both interested in the thought of tasting it, but to no avail. After an interrogation of Anna Rosa and her kitchen staff en Espanol, we were given the name of Restaurante de O’Reguan situated on the corner of Collonia y Vovadilla. But before Jesse and I made the mistake of going there, we were told that the place didn’t serve grilled young goat at all. They served mutton stew. Have you ever eaten mutton (i.e. fatty old sheep)? Not my favorite. I daresay, not yours either. We were advised eventually, that we’d have to travel to Monterrey, to find it, and that it was certainly not to be found in Jalisco. Chiwawah!
22 Augusto ‘07
Showing posts with label Short Stories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Short Stories. Show all posts
Thursday, January 10, 2008
Thursday, November 22, 2007
Giving Thanks
Recently, Rannie Arp sent me this story by her son Sigmund. He was born in 1959 and died 6 years ago of cancer. Sigmund was very interested in writing and was taking courses when he became ill. Even though this story is a little longer than I would usually put on the blog, and not really about Thanksgiving per se, I thought it was lovely. A wonderful reminder of all the reasons we who get to live in this magnificent place have to be grateful. And, although Sigmund is no longer with us, we can be grateful to him for helping us to remember. Peace to all in the valley. Happy Thanksgiving.
"Woodland Valley" - by Sigmund H. Arp
Before my parents built their current home, they owned a two-bedroom cabin in the Catskill Mountains. We used it as a weekend and summer home. It was clapboard, rust stain and a stone chimney. In front was a protected porch on which fire wood was stacked in the fall and winter. During late spring and summer, breakfasts were taken on the porch.
The cabin was perched upon a hill in a valley. There was one mountain directly behind us and another across the valley. There was only one road into the valley and it dead-ended by a state campsite. A small stream ran parallel to the road.
In the summer-time the trees on the surrounding mountains looked like deep green plush carpets rolling over humps and bumps. The windows would all be open, and the mixed scent of fresh cut grass and pine trees would waft through on warm breezes. In the evenings, fireflies would fill the night like thousands of concert-goers with their lighters, begging for an encore. I would drift off to sleep under the cacophony of crickets, frogs, and other nightlife buzzing, chirping, and whirring outside my window.
There were two other boys in the area with whom I would explore "our" valley. We would hike the mountains and forest pretending to be pioneers in an undiscovered land. Chipmunks and Blue Jays would announce our presence, no matter how hard we tried to walk like Indians. The only way to decipher time, was the rumbling of our stomachs, at which point we would no longer be concerned with stealth and run and deer jump down the mountain. After wolfing down a hasty lunch we would re-group and bound off to new adventures. We never lacked for a playground regardless of the weather or the season.
The stream that ran through the valley was also a favorite place. Many camp-outs and fishing trips were visited along it. There were two spots suitable for cooling off during the sweltering summer days, and on more than one occasion it was inevitable that we would come home soaked and wet fully clothed. One of our greatest adventures was to follow the stream until we founds its source. It was an all-day affair and after six miles of trekking we eventually found it. A small spring that came trickling and bubbling out of some rocks at the end of the valley by the foot of a mountain. We scooped the crystal clear water in cupped hands and drank. A cooler, cleaner, more refreshing taste could not be found we all agreed. Especially since we had discovered the source. We decided to keep this our secret. There were many secret places in "our" valley, and although the cabin is long gone and we have all grown up, the valley still remains with all its secrets for another generation to discover.
"Woodland Valley" - by Sigmund H. Arp
Before my parents built their current home, they owned a two-bedroom cabin in the Catskill Mountains. We used it as a weekend and summer home. It was clapboard, rust stain and a stone chimney. In front was a protected porch on which fire wood was stacked in the fall and winter. During late spring and summer, breakfasts were taken on the porch.
The cabin was perched upon a hill in a valley. There was one mountain directly behind us and another across the valley. There was only one road into the valley and it dead-ended by a state campsite. A small stream ran parallel to the road.
In the summer-time the trees on the surrounding mountains looked like deep green plush carpets rolling over humps and bumps. The windows would all be open, and the mixed scent of fresh cut grass and pine trees would waft through on warm breezes. In the evenings, fireflies would fill the night like thousands of concert-goers with their lighters, begging for an encore. I would drift off to sleep under the cacophony of crickets, frogs, and other nightlife buzzing, chirping, and whirring outside my window.
There were two other boys in the area with whom I would explore "our" valley. We would hike the mountains and forest pretending to be pioneers in an undiscovered land. Chipmunks and Blue Jays would announce our presence, no matter how hard we tried to walk like Indians. The only way to decipher time, was the rumbling of our stomachs, at which point we would no longer be concerned with stealth and run and deer jump down the mountain. After wolfing down a hasty lunch we would re-group and bound off to new adventures. We never lacked for a playground regardless of the weather or the season.
The stream that ran through the valley was also a favorite place. Many camp-outs and fishing trips were visited along it. There were two spots suitable for cooling off during the sweltering summer days, and on more than one occasion it was inevitable that we would come home soaked and wet fully clothed. One of our greatest adventures was to follow the stream until we founds its source. It was an all-day affair and after six miles of trekking we eventually found it. A small spring that came trickling and bubbling out of some rocks at the end of the valley by the foot of a mountain. We scooped the crystal clear water in cupped hands and drank. A cooler, cleaner, more refreshing taste could not be found we all agreed. Especially since we had discovered the source. We decided to keep this our secret. There were many secret places in "our" valley, and although the cabin is long gone and we have all grown up, the valley still remains with all its secrets for another generation to discover.
